Going Under
by sbyamibakura
Summary: Dean Ambrose/AJ Styles. Post 11/1/2016 Smackdown, sequel to Sick. Pt 3 of Your Star. He was on the top. So damn high up that he could ignore everyone else, all the would be usurpers to his throne. Could ignore all of them...except for one man who refused to lay down and die. Who refused to stop clawing up the craggy, broken, cliffside.


Going Under

By: PhoenixJustice

Disclaimer: The wrestlers own themselves; WWE owns the gimmicks and storylines.

Warning: Rated M for graphic sexual content, language, slash, etc.

Pairing: Dean Ambrose/AJ Styles.

Setting: Post 11/1/2016 Smackdown, sequel to _Sick_.

Summary: He was on the top. So damn high up that he could ignore everyone else, all the would be userpers to his throne. Could ignore all of them...except for one damned fucking man who _refused_ to lay down and die. Who refused to stop clawing up the craggy, broken, cliffside. Who climbed up with broken and bloody nails and did it with a smile the whole damn time.

Part Three of _Your Star_.

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One of the-many-perks to be _the_ Champion (despite someone like Owens claiming they were Champion. Come on, _Universal_ Champion? What a stupid name) was getting your own dressing room. He had heard Owens had gotten his own locker room-and one that locked, at that-and he had felt it his due, his _right_ , to have one as well. He was _the_ Champion, after all.

With him not exactly being on good terms with most of the Smackdown roster, it made it infinitely easier to go along in his day or night when not bothered. There was only one issue with it.

When people _knocked_ on the damn thing!

He looks up from where he was finishing putting on his last boot and glares at the door. Who the fuck would be bothering him now? If it was someone like Shane McMahon or Daniel Bryan-despite the nice front they _tried_ to put on-they'd just walk in like they owned the place (which, technically speaking, they kind of did) and not bother with something as polite as _knocking_.

And there was no love lost with him and everyone else on the roster (the only allies he had in WWE were on a different show entirely; kicking ass and taking names, as was right and what they did) so the likelyhood of someone on the roster needing him was slim to none.

And if was someone like _Ambrose_ , well, he _definitely_ wouldn't do something like knock on the do-

He stops that train of thought, flushing, and hating himself for allowing his thoughts to go there, however briefly. Ambrose meant nothing. Ambrose _was_ nothing. He had to remember that.

He walks over to the door and thrusts it open, glaring at the person who dared to bother him.

"H-Hi." James Ellsworth stammers. "I, I uh-here. Dean wanted me to give this to you. He said it was important to you? Said, um, that you dropped this last time. He-he said..."

"He said _what_?" AJ snarls.

The small man seems to get even smaller, all but trying to curl in on himself at the harsh tone (and _this_ was the man that Ambrose had allowed victories over him? Ridiculous!)

"He said that...he said-" Ellsworth flushes. " _Make me_."

He throws something at AJ and hightails it out of there, leaving AJ to stand in the doorway of the dressing room, staring at the item he caught.

His glove.

Instantly his stomach twists.

 _"You know, I think they said it's supposed to be getting into the 50s later," He says quietly, against AJ's ear and it has him shivering at the tone, despite himself, all gravel and_ _ **dark**_ _. "A bit cold, but luckily you have those gloves-" Ambrose moves both of his hands to AJ's front, grabbing one of his gloves, starting to take it off. "Do you they help, hmm? Do they help give a bit more-ah-_ _ **friction**_ _, when you need something more to get off?"_

 _"Shut-" He breathes. He could feel the pleasure building and he wants to scream, to shout, to hit Ambrose, to kiss him. To do_ _ **something**_ _to_ _ **make this stop**_ _. "Shut up."_

 _"_ _ **Make me**_ _."_

He ignores the heat in his belly and instead flings the glove into the mostly empty open lockers, gritting his teeth. He refused to give in, to think any more on it, to give Ambrose the satisfaction.

And then he notices the small, folded up note that had been placed in the glove, having fallen out when he threw it.

He growls at himself, unable to stop himself from leaning down to grab the paper. He unfolds it and reads.

 _Should I tell you how many times I got off with this beauty? You should try it sometime. The friction_ _ **is**_ _delicious. But maybe you know that already. - Ambrose_

He crumples the paper into a wad and starts to throw it away. He stands there, mouth curled in a snarl, glaring down at it...before putting it back in the glove and pocketing both.

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Perhaps they-Ellsworth and Ambrose both-had something resembling intelligence, because he doesn't see either for days. And the wrestlers or workers who _do_ see him are smart enough to steer clear of him. He knew it wasn't making him any friends and he couldn't find it in himself to care. The _championship_ was what mattered; it was his complete and solid proof that _he_ was the best. That he deserved to be where he was.

That the top of the wrestling mountain, the juggernaut known as WWE had him at the top, as it should. That no one else could surpass him, that WWE had made a mistake in all these years of not picking him up, that his time in TNA _hadn't_ been for nothing. That his time there, his time in Ring of Honor, his time in New Japan Pro Wrestling...all of that had been worth so much. It had helped him refine his skill and become one of the-become _the_ best wrestler on this planet.

He was on the top. So damn high up that he could ignore everyone else, all the would be userpers to his throne. Could ignore all of them...except for one damned fucking man who _refused_ to lay down and die. Who refused to stop clawing up the craggy, broken, cliffside. Who climbed up with broken and bloody nails and did it with a smile the whole damn time.

Ambrose, Ambrose, _fucking_ Ambrose-!

And just like that, as if his name is fucking _magic_ comes, unbidden, another memory of Ambrose, as if he were next to him in the flesh.

 _"And how many times do I gotta tell you before you get it?" He can hear Ambrose croon to him, his hot mouth next to his ear, his voice like gravel, making it difficult to ignore the hard-on in his pants. "Fuck_ _ **you**_ _."_

He gets to his dressing room and, even in his anger, has enough cognizance to lock the damn thing this time. He didn't care if he got polite knocks or if Shane fucking McMahon himself wanted to see him. The _last_ thing he wanted was to deal with anyo-

He stops.

Ambrose stood in the middle of the room. He grins at AJ easily, as if he wasn't _all_ of the cause of AJ's fucking problems.

"Hey, honey. Miss me." Ambrose says, cheekily.

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The glove-and the paper inside it-burn in his pocket like a brand and he _seethes._ He steps forward and the first thing he does is to hit Ambrose hard in the face. Ambrose reels back slightly and when he moves his hand away, he sees a bit of blood in the corner of his mouth. He stares at it, at Ambrose and Ambrose looks at him-surprised, at first, and then his eyes turn deeper, darker.

He licks the blood from his mouth and AJ holds back a shudder with difficulty.

"Ooh, babe; isn't this the kind of stuff that ends up on Jerry Springe-"

He throws another fist Ambrose's way, but this time he gets read and Ambrose's hand catches his bare one. He can feel the burn as Ambrose touches him. Stupid, stupid, to not have on his gloves; at least then he could pretend a little better that he didn't feel-

"Shut the fuck up, Ambrose." He growls at him.

Ambrose raises a brow and the wide grin on his face belies the intelligence in his eyes. He knew he had been underestimating Ambrose before and that was _his_ folly. He couldn't underestimate him anymore. One false step and he'd lose everything he ever coveted and he knew it.

"Is that all you can come up with, Styles? I'm hurt." Ambrose says, a hand to his chest in a mockery of sadness. "And here I came up with such _poetry_ for you."

Said 'poetry' lies folded in his pocket, inside of the glove that Ambrose had kept for days (and did who _knew_ what with it.)

"You mean that-that _filth_?" He spits. "Threw that shit away as soon as I looked at it. More of your juvenile _bullshit_."

Ambrose, however, doesn't look all too impressed. "Yeah?" He asks him, raising a brow. "And here I thought you'd appreciate a wordsworth. Maybe I should stick to my day job of kicking your ass and taking back _my_ title."

It makes him see red and he growls audibly, grabbing onto Ambrose, pushing him hard against the open lockers, ignoring his grunting as he pushes up against him, in his face.

" _My_ title." He hisses. "Mine, Ambrose. _Mine_."

Ambrose's eyes burn and he growls in return and his mouth is over AJ's before he can react.

His hands flail and he tries to pull away, tries to-to-

He kisses back, helpless, and Ambrose laughs against his mouth.

"You like that." Ambrose says darkly, grabbing AJ's jaw roughly to deepen the kiss. "You like it don't you? But let's make one thing clear, Styles-" He pushes AJ back and looks at him, eyes wild. " _Mine_."

His mouth dries.

Ambrose laughs again, as if he's given him some sort of answer. The man reaches for him again but this time he manages to stumble back, to be free of his grip, but he stumbles _too_ much and before he can react, the glove-and paper-fall out of his pocket.

He stares down at it, dumbfounded, until he notices Ambrose look at him, with an almost curious look in his eyes, before he tries to kneel down to get it. He reacts quicker this time and grabs onto Ambrose, but the motion is too much and they both fall. He lands atop Ambrose with an 'oomph', staring down at the other man.

It's quiet for a moment. Then:

"If you wanted to go steady that bad, I'd have given you my letterman jacket sooner."

He recoils, starting to pull away from him in disgust (it could only be that) but Ambrose is once again quicker, like a snake, and wraps his arms around AJ's back, holding him in place. His mouth was saying all sorts of dumb, silly, things, but his eyes are nothing but deadly serious as they look at AJ.

He swallows at the look and tries to ignore, well, _everything_.

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He had only did it because it was fun (would probably _always_ be fun) to mess with Styles. It's how all of this had started, with Styles. Styles swaggering into the dressing room, full of arrogance and fire-and how _satisfying_ that had been to bring him down to Dean's level, to pull that pleasure out of him. To know that it was _him_ that had gotten these things out of Styles. No one else.

 _Mine_.

His mouth dries and he pushes that thought out of his mind. Instead he focuses on the man atop him. He rocks his hips experimentally, biting back a groan as the friction between them is so _good_ , feeling a thrill rock through him when he sees, feels, how it's affecting Styles. The look in his eyes has him lean up, taking the man's lips again, feels him stiffen but not pull away. He sits up properly now, Styles still in his lap, moving his hands to cup the man's face, mouth moving against his, feeling the delicious burn of the man's beard rub against his own.

Styles lets out a whimper as their tongues meet, unbidden and it shoots pleasure through him, right through his body, right to his dick, hardening it even further and he starts to shake as hard as Styles, shakes with utter _need_ and he _wants_ and _fuck_ is it wrong, but when did he ever listen to anything, even when he _knew_ something was wrong?

He pushes Styles off of him and Styles falls back on his ass. He blinks at Dean, dazed for a moment, before recognition hits his eyes once more and there comes the anger again. He tries to get up, but stops when he sees Dean fumbling with his belt in a hurry. He tosses it to the side and his hands scramble to get into his pants, to pull out his dick.

The other man stares at him, as if frozen, staring as Dean languidly strokes his cock, eyes transfixed on Styles all the while. Styles wrenches his eyes closed and Dean starts to say something when he sees the man's hands moving to his own jeans, pulling down the zip to get to his own dick. The sight of Styles' dick, the sight of seeing the man pleasuring himself in front of Dean for the first time undoes him.

He shimmies out of his pants and shirt, kicks his shoes off, while the man's eyes remain closed, his mouth letting out short puffs as he strokes himself. He crawls over to Styles and smiles as the man jumps when he touches his chest. His eyes open wide and he stares in shock at Dean and his nakedness. He grabs onto the bottom of Styles' shirt and looks at him.

Styles stares at him with an unfathomable look, eyes wide. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Dean takes that as his cue and pulls the man's shirt off of him. He throws the man's boots to the side before focusing on his pants. His hands pause as they touch the man's hips and the entirety of the situation hits him full force.

He can do nothing but stare at Styles now, his mouth dry, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

What the fuck was he doing? This man was his _enemy_. He was _in the way._ He had what _belonged_ to Dean. What was _his._

 _Mine_.

He shudders.

It was all spinning so far out of his control now and he couldn't stop it.

He must have paused there for a long time, because Styles' eyes open and he looks at Dean uncertainly. He swallows again and stares right at him as he pulls off his jeans.

Styles looks at him, a combination of angry, scared, and desire and it hits him right there, right in the gut, in the chest and he has to grit his teeth against it, against the sudden feeling that flies through him.

He pulls him forward for a kiss and he trembles as much as Styles as the kiss feels infinitely softer than any other hard one they had shared yet.

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He pulls away from him, finally and pushes him down softly onto the carpet.

"What are you-" Styles starts, obviously trying to push anger into his tone. The fact that he had to _try_ now-and the fact that Dean _noticed_ this-was...

He does his best to drum up his finest shit eating grin at him.

"Just lay there and watch; you'll see." He wags an eyebrow. Styles huffs and looks away, but he doesn't try to fight Dean-something Dean notices immediately.

Styles jerks as Dean's mouth touches his chest, letting out a soft sound. He lets his mouth trail down, tongue moving over the slight smattering of hair that trailed down his body, eyes closing in pleasure at the sounds Styles makes. His eyes open and he grins again when Styles lets out a sound of obvious disappointment when Dean ignores his bobbing cock but instead moves further down.

"Ohh, don't look so disappointed, baby." He says, grin widening. Styles glares at him. "I'll get there soon enough."

In fact... He strokes the man's cock a few times until he gets where he wants to. He lets go of his cock-ignoring his almost silent protest-and spreads his thighs apart.

"What are you-" Styles' voice breaks off into a moan as Dean buries his head down there, tongue licking around his hole. He jerks so hard that Dean has to hold him down. "Stop. Ambrose. Stop-"

"But you don't _want_ me to stop," He says gutterly. His tongue dips inside, taking in the man's cries, swirling around, opening him up, his own pleasure heightened the more he realizes what it's doing to him, how it undoes him, how it breaks him down. Makes him less than the arrogant man Dean had seen. Makes him less than the man full of swagger and lies. Makes him less than the man who did every trick in the book to take-and keep-the title.

And makes him _more_.

"Stop." Styles is all but begging now. "Dean, _please_ -"

He pulls back, stunned. He stares down at Styles, body flushed, face crimson, cock so, so, hard and his eyes...

And he almost says it. Two little syllables. He almost says it, so he leans down to kiss him instead so he doesn't say it. He can't. He _can't_. He takes his cries into his mouth, wrapping his hand around the man's cock, stroking him to completion. He groans as Styles comes in his hand, pulls back to look at the viscous fluid drip down his palm, transfixed.

"Dean." Styles whispers.

He whips his head to look back at him. Styles stares at him, swallowing hard. But why was Styles shaking so-no. That was _him._ _He_ was the one shaking now.

His eyes are the one to shy away now and all of a sudden everything is too much. It has completely gotten out of his hard earned control and he hates the feeling of chaos in his head. He tries to pull back but this time it is _Styles_ who pulls _him_ back. Styles looks as surprised as Dean does that he did so.

"I-I can't." He finally says.

Styles glares at him. "You damn well _can._ " He hisses. Then he looks more uncertain, looking away from Dean. "You _can._ "

"I'm-" He swallows.

Styles looks back at him and grabs his hand and it's another role reversal, as it's _Styles_ this time who starts to lick _Dean_ ' _s_ hand. Licks himself off of Dean and the sight of it, the feel of it, has Dean groaning. Styles looks at him with hot blue eyes that sear through him and he leans forward, helpless, kissing him again.

They both shudder. It feels different now. _He_ feels different. _Styles_ feels different and he is helpless to do anything but to kiss him, to accept Styles' silent offer as he lays back, moves his fingers, one at a time, into his accepting body, to replace them with his now weepng cock. His eyes close as they start to move together, hands like vices on the man's hips and he groans at the feeling as the man envelops him.

"Look at me." Styles says quietly.

He ignores him, grunting as he pushes deeper inside, tries to ignore everything that is going on (ignore the stinging in his chest, his eyes) but still feels like he's failing badly.

"Look at me!" Styles insists.

He shudders and shakes his head violently.

" _Goddamnit_ , Dean; _look at m_ -"

His eyes pop open and Styles gasps at whatever look must be in his face, his eyes. He can only imagine the crazed, burning, look in them.

" _Look at you_?" He snarls in return to Styles' words. "Look at _you_? All I ever _do_ is look at you. On tv, in front of me, in my fucking _dreams_ do I ever look at you! You're fucking _everywhere_ and I _can't get rid of you!_ _Why won't you release me from this?!_ You...you..."

He sobs out a breath as he thrusts again and again inside of him and Styles cries out, hands burning brands on Dean's forearms.

"You-" He slumps forward, feels the sting of tears in his eyes. It was too much. It was all too much. It was _never_ supposed to be this way. And yet it was. He couldn't change it. Couldn't go back. Couldn't undo it. Couldn't... couldn't drudge up the feeling of _wanting_ to change it, no matter how overwhelming it might be.

"All I do is look at you, AJ." He says helplessly, looking at him now and Styles' eyes widen.

And then he comes, startling them both, his spunk shooting deep inside, feels the other man tighten around him and feels his spunk hitting their skin. He pulls out of him and slumps atop him, head on his spunk covered stomach, feeling the pull of exhaustion-from emotions, more than anything else.

It's quiet for a long time. Then...and then Styles' hands move hesitantly over his head, running through his hair. He laughs helplessly as the tears fall freely down his face now.

"And do you..." Styles starts. "Do you think I do anything _less,_ Dean? That I don't watch you as much as you watch me? All I have...all that I am..." He moves his head up to look at him now and the look in his eyes leaves him stunned. "Everything...it's all about you."

He looks at him, speechless.

And then he kisses him. Kisses him again and again until both of them have to pull away for air.

"You're a son of a bitch, AJ Styles." He croaks.

AJ looks at him. And then he laughs. He laughs loud and hard; the kind of belly laugh that overtook your body, made you glow from within. He looks at Dean with something that could be misconstrued as _fondness_ and it clenches his chest to look at it.

And when did he...when was...when did that shift happen in his mind? Styles he once had been.

Not anymore.

"I could say the same about you, Dean." AJ says, grinning.

" _Could?_ " He scoffs. "You're losing your touch already, old man."

"I'm not old!" AJ says, looking hurt. "I'm still in the best years of my career!"

He shrugs, starting to put on his clothes, ignoring the fact that he was still covered liberally in AJ's spunk (he really didn't care.) AJ puts on his clothes as well, jerkily, not looking at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and encircles AJ's waist once he finishes doing up his jeans, ignoring the tingling feeling he gets as they touch. AJ jerks slightly as he touches but he doesn't try to pull away.

He sets his head on AJ's shoulder, absently licking it, eyes closing pleasantly for a moment at the taste.

"Not the _only_ thing you're the best at." He whispers, feeling a thrill at his shudder. "Cause I gotta say...you're..."

He pauses. Pauses so long that AJ turns around, looking at him, a serious look in his eyes.

"I'm what, Dean?"

"I'll tell you that when I figure it out." He whispers.

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I hope you enjoyed this!

Let me know what you thought!

-PhoenixJustice


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